


An Impenetrable Dream

by Saentorine



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Brother Feels, Brothers, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Comfort/Angst, Coming of Age, Denethor's A+ Parenting, Dramatic Irony, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gandalf Knows All, Gen, Gondor, Growing Up, Mentors, Minas Tirith, Orcs, Prophetic Dreams, Trouble, Young Boromir, Young Faramir, no seriously this is ridiculous, so much dramatic irony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4375085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saentorine/pseuds/Saentorine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Faramir has a dream that suggests a destiny worthy of his father’s attention and praise . . . but it seems he is mistaken.</p><p>Explores Faramir’s early relationship with Boromir, Denethor, and Gandalf in light of the growing threats in Middle Earth during his childhood and his own proclivity for prophetic dreams. (Mostly I just felt like cramming a bunch of significant character-defining experiences-- and dramatic irony-- for young Faramir into one fic!).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Faramir’s dreams apparently come to him in verse, but I am shit at poetry so I’m not even going to try, lol. 
> 
> I tried really hard to make this canon compliant; I'm not sure if I was successful in anything besides giving myself a royal headache . . . but I'm happy to comment on what I figured/guessed of the timeline or whatever if anyone's curious.

Faramir woke with a thudding heartbeat, as winded as if he had run a lap around the entire city. He rolled to his side to allow himself to breathe deeply, pushing his sweaty hair from his eyes. His eastward-facing bedchamber (Boromir’s across the hall faced west) was flooded with a low reddish light. It was difficult to discern the red of sunrise from the eerie red light cast by Mordor, but the rising heat of the day told him it was near to morning. 

He had had a curious and vivid dream. It had featured a figure in armor, though somehow he knew they weren’t _meant_ to be in armor; it had been donned in secret, without permission, and it was somewhat ill-fitting. They stood upon the familiar fields of the Pelennor, surrounded by a melee of cavalry in combat-- a great war come before Minas Tirith. However, the figure was focused on one dark adversary, a dark-cloaked specter with a terrifying helm and a fathomless void where he face ought to be, astride a great winged beast.

In his dream he knew it was imperative the beast and its rider be slain-- and despite their stealth and secrecy, the armored figure was the only one who could do it. The black rider smashed at their shield with his great mace, but the figure raised their sword aloft and sliced the head of the beast clean from its neck, knocking the rider from its back.

 _No living man may hinder me!_ the black specter had hissed, drawing forward as their adversary recovered. But the figure only gave a great peel of laughter and drove their sword into the void between their faceless face and shoulders covered by their great mantle. The creature lunged forward as if having been simultaneously stabbed from behind, but rather than fall, dissipated into nothingness, leaving only dark cloak and helm. 

As soon as he woke he knew it had been one of _those_ dreams; dreams that spoke to him in verses with names and places he did not know, but when he asked the right people or found the right books could be determined as _real_. They spoke of real historical fact, of prophecies made in distant ages, and they often spoke of what was yet to come to pass.

He knew this because the first of these dreams had already come true.

***

Eight years ago he had been only four years old, barely old enough to be sleeping in his own room apart from his mother. Possibly this transition had been rushed due to Finduilas’s failing health, which Faramir—having known her his whole life as pale, thin, and quiet-- had been unconscious of at the time. However, in his dream he saw her laid out on her bed wan and thin as a corpse, dark shadows beneath her eyes. The dream whispered of a waxing moon and a raven’s cry, and that his mother would soon accept the gift of Men granted by Eru Ilúvatar.

He had woken in a cold sweat, covers twisted and tossed to the ground—and he had apparently shouted, for when he gathered his bearings he saw that Boromir had run into his chambers wide-eyed with a candlestick held aloft like a sword in case of some terrible intruder. He had cried for his mother and would not be consoled until she was sent for, her handmaiden helping to place him onto her lap as she sat upon the bed since she had grown so weak as to be unable to lift her own child. But she pushed back the hair from his face and wiped tears from his eyes with hands still warm with life, calming him with a lullaby.

At first it had been dismissed it as a child’s nightmare. Denethor commanded the servants to stop giving him sweets after sundown and suggested he spend less time around his mother, as her frail condition was clearly upsetting him. The chambermaid kept a small lamp burning in his bedroom during the night hours to ward off a presumed fear of the dark. When Finduilas was moved to her own room to convalesce, away from the family, Faramir’s questions to the servants on the ominous “gift” she was due to receive were dismissed with mumbles and averted eyes.

When Faramir had the dream a second time and fled to his brother’s room in tearful terror, Boromir had held his hands and assured him that he was simply frightened of what _could_ be, knowing their mother was ill, but she would surely be well again. Yet when Faramir pleaded desperately with him to be forthright with what the dream foretold, he was forced to speak of the fate that eventually awaited all Men, the mystery of mortality told in child’s terms, and both brothers wept.

Having been restricted from his mother’s sickbed and with so much attention paid to soothing him to sleep, Faramir knew something was amiss when some months later, Boromir roused him from his bed in the dark of night to escort him to Finduilas’s room. As they made their way silently down the stairs, he noted the shape of the moon recalling echoes of dream-memory, and he knew what was to pass.

They gathered at her bedside so that she could speak of her love for them, gazing into their eyes and smiling gently as she stroked their cheeks with a single chilled hand-- for Denethor held her other so tight it was as if he believed only he kept her yet anchored to the land of the living. Boromir stood stiff and agitated, trying to be brave. Faramir cried openly.

Finally, Finduilas lay back against her pillows and peacefully closed her eyes-- and from without the open windows came the clear caw of a raven.

Denethor leaned in close to her face, desperately whispering tender endearments of an intimacy his sons had never been privy to before, pleading for her to stay with him.

“She cannot hear you, Father,” Faramir burst out-- for how could he not have heard the raven, just as his dream had told?

Denethor shut his eyes and collapsed with his cheek against his wife’s breast, the silence beneath which surely confirmed the truth in Faramir’s words. Faramir thought he saw a tear loose down his father’s cheek, but he and Boromir were quickly escorted from the chamber before either could cause him further upset.

“Was I mistaken?” Faramir asked Boromir in a frightened whisper.

“No,” Boromir shook his head, struggling to keep from choking on his words. “She has gone.”

Boromir held his hand in silence as he helped him on his way back upstairs to their chambers, before finally admitting: “I am sorry I doubted your dream, little brother. Earlier this night, I had the same dream for myself. It foretold exactly what was to come.”

***

At least this past night’s dream had been triumphant. Faramir played the moment again and again in his mind, occasionally exchanging the heroic figure’s perspective with his own. Whatever this faceless enemy, it was a menacing foe to threaten a horde of armed men before the gates of Minas Tirith, and he could only imagine the triumph of one who would slay such a creature in defense of the city in whose fields it fell. It certainly would not belong to him; as competent as was becoming in his martial crafts, at twelve years old the prospect of hand-to-hand combat against such an opponent seemed as fanciful as the make-believe battles he had waged against invisible dragons as a child. Even Boromir, his idol and pride of every arms master that had trained him, was barely more than a footsoldier at his young age; if Boromir were not yet ripe to be such a hero, there was certainly no hope for Faramir.

He knew better than to allow the dream fade into the aether before he could commit its meaning to memory. Barely awake, he stumbled into his clothes and hurried for the library, where he began to sift through old tomes for snatches of history he could remember linked to clues in his dream. He had spent enough hours stolen away amongst the shelves, reading titles and pulling out volumes in the languages he knew that it was not long before he came upon a tale that rang eerily true to his dream.

Breakfast was missed as the sun rose higher and began to warm the white stone of the city into proper sweltering summer heat, but Faramir’s attention remained focused until the clear blast of a silver trumpet sounded from the towers. With this signal that a company of Gondor was approaching the gates, Faramir quickly replaced the books and practically sprinted for the lower levels of the city. Although his brother, still a solider in training, would not be returning with any glory of the like in his dream, it was unlikely a citizen of Gondor had ever hailed the return of a soldier as gladly as Faramir did now for Boromir.

Boromir had been gone nearly a month on assignment in Osgiliath. It was only a training mission, a chance for the budding soldier to test his mettle in the field at command of more experienced captains and generals, for Osgiliath had been repossessed by Gondor for some decades now-- although it remained a military outpost rather than restored as the great city it had once been. His company had rehearsed their city defense in the ruins of the westernmost blocks of the city while their more experienced brothers watched remaining bridge over the Anduin. Occasionally the small city was assailed by small bands of Haradrim and orcs from the South and East, reminding the young Gondorians of the stakes of their training. Boromir had found it incredibly exciting when on their journey home they had encountered-- and summarily defeated-- a pair of orc scouts _west_ of the river, though he had been kept to the rear of the guard and unable to draw any blood of his own.

Faramir scurried as quickly as he could down to the sixth level where the horses were kept, knowing Boromir would tend his mount before climbing to the higher levels to meet his family. He needed only to call his brother’s name once and his voice was heard above all others; Boromir lifted his head and broke into a huge grin, turning as Faramir ran to him to seize him in an ecstatic embrace.

“Welcome back!” Faramir buried his face into his shoulder.

“It is good to see you, little brother,” Boromir replied with a huge grin, his unshaved cheek grazing his younger brother’s smooth one as he set him back down. It struck Faramir as a painful reminder that he was growing older, no longer a boy but a man, with all the responsibility and sacrifice that entailed. Although he watched Boromir becoming an adult of valor with fierce pride and admiration, his heart ached with the prescience of loneliness knowing that as the years passed, the time the brothers shared together would grow even shorter and more seldom. This was the longest they had yet spent apart, yet only a mere outing by ranging standards. It would not be long before Boromir spent months on campaign. And although Faramir could hardly fathom the possibility that his strong and capable brother could be taken down by any power in Arda, he knew that logically the longer he spent out of the city, the more likely it was he would not return at all.

Boromir gave a contented sigh as they began to walk together. “And it is good to be home. Never before has it been more clear to me the significance of our capital! On our way we met with a band of emissaries from Rohan on their way to speak with Father, and the Grey Pilgrim came upon us just before we reached the gates, having come all the way from the north. It seems all roads lead to Minas Tirith!”

“Mithrandir has come?” Faramir asked.

“You know of him? His last visit was before you were born."

“And you've been speaking of his fireworks ever since," Faramir laughed. The wizard's talent with pyrotechnics had made quite an impression on 4-year-old Boromir.

They went in to the throne hall to join their father for the noon meal. Faramir had not been in the habit of dining with him while Boromir was gone, as Denethor often claimed to be too busy to be distracted for more than just a bite of food. However, the meal in honor of his brother's return, even if it was only the three of them, was not one to miss.

It was seldom that the Steward smiled since the death of his wife, but when he did it was usually in the presence of his eldest son. His eyes shone with adoration as Boromir sat to his right and briefed him on the company’s doings in and around the riverside city. Boromir was modest, insisting that their company’s intermittent encounters with lone scouts were nothing to boast of, but their work was a boon to Gondor nonetheless and it was clear he had met and exceeded Denethor’s expectations. Faramir’s heart was torn, however, between wanting to be proud of his brother and fearing the gradually increasing danger he would be subjected to as he endured more and more distant and involved operations.

Eventually Denethor acknowledged the presence of his second son. “And what have you been up to so far this day, as your brother has been riding halfway across Gondor?”

“Well, I was in the libraries reading--" he began, but then saw the frown and flash of disappointment in his father's eyes. "But I promised Beregond yesterday that we would spar this afternoon," he offered.

“Very well,” Denethor replied blandly, turning his focus back to his bread. However, his silent judgement lingered in the air between them, his unspoken command that Faramir devote his adolescence to improving his martial skills, like Boromir had all along. Denethor was a learned man himself, an expert in the histories of Gondor, but he had been a soldier and general in his own time and had come of age in a time when a man had the “luxury” of being warrior, academic, and artist all at once; however, in their dark age, as Denethor had counseled Faramir in countless lectures, a head for lore and songs was of little value in a land under near constant physical threat.

Weighing whether to preserve the peace his father would now spare him for the rest of the meal or continue to seek the answers that few men in the city could grant him, Faramir swallowed. “I was looking to uncover the meaning of the dream I had last night,” he started carefully, hoping his father would recognize he spoke of _that_ kind of dream, that he was not merely recalling the strange fantasies of sleep. Although Denethor did not pause in his meal, Faramir thought he noted a tiny spasm of curiosity flit across his father’s face, and dared to continue, briefly describing the battle come to Minas Tirith, the faceless helmed rider in black, the beast he rode upon that seemed to be a dragon, and the armored figure who slew him.

“Always dreaming of dragons,” Boromir shook his head but smiled fondly, remembering how not long ago Faramir’s favorite game had been to fend the city walls from imaginary fire-drakes, wielding a wooden sword against his invisible foes. Boromir for his part had always preferred sparring with his friends, corporeal enemies who actually bruised and cried out when struck. “You know, little brother, most boys your age are having dreams about _ladies_ , not dragonslayers.” He winked and Faramir flushed. 

Denethor, however, kept his eyes on his meal, appearing lost in troubled thought. The grooves in his furrowed brow were deep and wrinkles around the corner of his mouth exaggerated his frown. As a descendent of the long-lived Numenorians, in his sixties Denethor might still have maintained the handsomeness and energy of a man in his prime, but their family’s bloodline had become diluted through the centuries and they lived in perilous times. Faramir could sense that there was something gnawing steadily away at his father’s remaining youth and vigor, though whether grief for his wife or simply the pressures of running a kingdom, he could not say.

Finally, Denethor inhaled and returned to the sharp tone he had taken with Faramir earlier. “You will not make much of a warrior if you spend more time dreaming of battles that could be than training for those that are,” he reminded him.

“Even warriors have to sleep, and I do not choose what I dream,” Faramir replied mildly. 

“Does his dream bear any significance to you, Father?” Boromir asked Denethor, knowing that Faramir’s dreams could be more than they seemed.

“I'm quite certain I have uncovered it," Faramir interrupted, eager to demonstrate that his hours at study had not been in vain. "I read that in the ages of the last kings King Eärnur was beset by the Witch-King of Angmar at Fornost, who was faceless with a dark mantel and helm; Eärnur could not slay him, but he fled, and one of the Elves of Rivendell told him: _Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall,_ ” he recited eagerly. “And indeed, the rider in my dream claimed that no living man could kill him."

Denethor looked aggrieved that Faramir continued to press the issue, and before responding he took a long moment to chew his bite of food. “Indeed. It has been feared that would not be the last he and his kind would trouble us."

"But whomever-- whatever-- his foe was in my dream, they defied the prophecy," Faramir pointed out with optimism. "Or found way _around_ it. So I have considered . . . what if ‘not by the hand of man’ simply means by one who is not of the _race_ of Man?” he posited. It was known that prophecies were vague or even part riddle, phrased to mislead. “What if it were by the hand of, say, Elf or Dwarf that he met his doom?”

“Then none of us here in Gondor would be in any position of proving it either way,” replied Denethor, once again dismissive even in his clear agitation. “And seeing as how it was an Elf who spoke the prophecy in the first place, if it were so simple surely we would have been rid of him by now.” He sighed, now turning his eyes upon Faramir with the impatience of a father for his over-excited child. “Are you certain you have not merely been spending too much time at your reading? Dreams often reflect the attentions and fantasies of the day.”

“If this Witch-King ever comes to Minas Tirith, I am certain we are more than equipped to defy him,” Boromir proclaimed as he reached a hand over to pat Faramir's wrist-- though it was difficult to tell if he meant to assure or merely boast, clearly still high on the adrenaline from his campaign in the ancient ruined city.

“Yes, but should the Witch-King should come to Minas Tirith, would it not be well advised for Gondor’s armies to know how to kill him?” Faramir replied, slightly worried that Boromir’s battle-lust would rob him of good sense, rather like the last king himself.

"Neither of you need concern yourselves with it," Denethor finally cut in abruptly. "We face enemies enough without this specter come again. Do not speak of dark things that have thus far spared us," he hissed, speaking of the superstition that had become rampant in Gondor as their enemies closed in, that to speak the name of Mordor and its allies was like to calling them out.

"But should we not prepare ourselves for his possible return if we suspect it?" Faramir asked.

" _I_ will address the possibility in the manner I see fit." Denethor commanded. "You are no Steward, nor a captain or soldier, nor even a man full grown. Attend to tasks I have set you to and leave this business to your father."

Both brothers fell silent in compliance as they finished the rest of the meal. Denethor did not speak but remained quietly distressed and Faramir's heart beat heavy in his chest, wishing his father did not insist on bearing the burden of this knowledge alone. Perhaps it would have been better to have never told him of his dream to begin with.

Although he might have would preferred to linger a while longer in the company of his eldest son, with the emissaries from Rohan in the city Denethor was bound to the duties of the Stewardship and as soon as the bread was gone, the two brothers were dismissed until the next meal.

“Would you care to speak with Mithrandir this afternoon?” Boromir asked Faramir as they rose to depart. Faramir read in his manner that he suspected Gandalf would have better insight into his dream-- or at least be more open in sharing it. “Father has given him access to the libraries and I believe he is there now."

Faramir nodded eagerly but Denethor gave a sniff of contempt. “To think that the vaults of Gondor become little more than a personal lending library for that wizard, while Gondor stands with enemies at her gate . . . “

“Perhaps we are friendlier than the Elves of Rivendell,” Boromir suggested, referring to the fabled libraries of Rivendell that were surely even vaster and more magnificent than those of Minas Tirith.

As they passed out of the doorway, however, Faramir caught his eye and glanced quickly back at their father, still scowling as servants cleared away the meal. Boromir could not help but laugh. “No, perhaps not.”

The brothers found Gandalf making himself at home in the library, piling books he had pulled from the shelves onto a lone table lit by candlelit in order to peruse them one by one. The sight made Faramir smile, for it matched his own habits. A habit he did not share, however, was puffing on a long pipe as he did so, filling the stone chamber with a pleasant smoky scent that masked the mildew and dry staleness of the old books.

"Mithrandir?" Boromir approached him tentatively.

"That is what some call me, sons of Denethor," Gandalf replied, barely lifting his eyes from the book he held. Faramir marveled that he recognized Boromir after so many years and identified Faramir without ever having met him-- though he supposed he resembled Boromir enough for it to be obvious. "Many are my names in many countries. Mithrandir among the Elves, Thurkûn to the Dwarves, Olórin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incánus, in the North Gandalf; to the East, I go not.*" He turned a page. "I have a great many tasks to attend to this afternoon, but I should be finished by nightfall should you like to see some fireworks.”

Boromir laughed to think that the wizard still saw him as the child he been during his last visit; had he not ridden into Minas Tirith alongside Boromir in his armor? “We are much too old for fireworks now, Mithrandir.”

“ _I_ am not too old for fireworks,” Faramir corrected him. 

“Has Gondor become such a dour, solemn place that her people no longer even care for fireworks?” the wizard exclaimed. “To think that anyone should be _too old_! I have known Elves one hundred times your age that still delight in them.”

“Well, so long as it is by your magic and wastes nothing, I am sure there is no harm in boosting the city’s morale,” Boromir conceded.

“We should very much like to see them,” agreed Faramir. “And hear your stories of your time with the Elves, should you like to share them with us.”

However, it seemed he did not, for Gandalf had gone silent in concentration over the tome he had opened and did not reply. The two brothers stood by awkwardly, feeling it would be rude to slip away without a word-- and yet equally so to interrupt. However, Gandalf was mouthing words to himself under his breath as he read, and they soon recognized them as Quenya.

“Faramir is well studied in the Elvish tongues,” Boromir told him, giving Faramir a gentle shove forward in offering. He didn’t trust himself to be as helpful in that regard, languages and lore being more his brother’s ken, and Faramir was the one who wanted to talk about his dream. “What is it that you seek amongst Gondor’s records? Perhaps we could assist you.”

Now close enough to see, Faramir peeked into the book spread before the grey wizard, immediately recognizing it as the very same he had investigating when reading about King Eärnur mere hours ago. “Why, you read of Isuldir and his heirs!” he exclaimed. "I was just reading on them this morning."

"Were you?" Gandalf's blue eyes settled hard on him and Faramir had the impression as he often did with his father that he was reading deeper than simply looking into his face. "And what is it that Gondor teaches her sons about Isuldir these days?"

"Well, there is a song we sometimes sing about him," Faramir explained. It was not a very _happy_ song, a plaintive ballad that concluded that even those who live in great glory may one day meet a humble doom-- hardly the sort of thing soldiers enjoyed to hear before battle-- but Faramir thought there was an eerie beauty in its melancholy.

"Mm?" Gandalf nodded with eyebrows raised, indicating he would like to hear it. Startled, because generally no one was interested in hearing Faramir repeat the songs and poetry he knew, Faramir began to recite it.

However, he had only gotten through the first stanza when Boromir made an urgent noise of protest behind him. His older brother, it seemed, did not share Faramir's enthusiasm for sharing Gondor's history with their visitor. "For what purpose do you investigate Isuldir?" he demanded. His face was colored as he had been slapped. "What care have you for a line of Gondorian kings centuries exhausted?"

Faramir immediately fell silent, realizing what his brother suspected. Although he had long been taught that the Steward’s duty was to tend the city on behalf of its true king and humbly surrender it upon his return, after centuries of Steward rule to Boromir it was a foregone conclusion that Gondor would one day be his. Faramir knew that the prospect of _someone else_ , someone likely lacking proper intimacy with the realm Boromir loved so dearly, coming in to seize his birthright agitated him as it agitated Denethor-- perhaps even more so, since Boromir had yet to see his own chance to rule.

Gandalf was not intimidated, however. “I am under no delusion that your father has not already warned you of what he suspects of my intentions,” he replied delicately. “But each Steward of Gondor still takes oath that he shall ‘hold rod and rule in the name of the king, _until_ he shall return,’ does he not?”

Boromir’s eyes narrowed. “It would seem that after these many hundred years we could accept that Gondor _has_ no king. If Isuldir yet has a living heir, where would he stay? Why would he fail to come forth? And after these many centuries how would he even know himself to be?” 

“The answer may be revealed in these books,” Gandalf explained. “There is an ordained course for his return.”

“But why trouble so? Why not accept that Gondor has prospered without its king and there is no need for his return?”

Gandalf gave Boromir a reproachful look. “Now, surely a wise leader defers to the will of his people,” he began.

“Of course,” Boromir replied, suddenly defensive that Gandalf might have mistaken him. For all his ambition, he was no wanton tyrant; even as their father withdrew further into solitude within the walls of the seventh level, Boromir was constantly out amongst their people, delighting in their nation as if theirs was yet the greatest age of Gondor. Young as he was, Minas Tirith already loved Boromir as fiercely as Faramir and Denethor did.

“Have the people of Gondor accepted that their king will not return?”

“They still wait for the White Tree to bloom again,” Boromir admitted. “But the tree is long dead; they wait in vain.”

“If they have not accepted the line of the Stewards as their new monarchy even as the tree stands petrified in the courtyard . . . then it would seem you have your answer.”

Boromir tensed and two bright patches of flush colored his cheeks.

“In these days Gondor needs men of valor more than she needs a king,” Faramir piped up in his brother’s defense, hoping to diffuse the tension rising between his two companions and reassure Boromir of his value. And Boromir was indeed of value, already a fine soldier and charismatic leader at only 17 years old. “We have survived these many centuries without the one, but we will perish swiftly without the other.”

“True,” Gandalf agreed. “Alas that it has fallen to Gondor to defend us from the forces in the East. But a king may possess valor himself, as well as other needful skills; in her hour of need Gondor may be very grateful for the return of her rightful king.”

Boromir regained his composure but it was clear he had lost patience with their visitor, no longer the harmless wandering purveyor of fireworks he had been to him an hour ago. He placed a firm hand on Faramir’s shoulder, starting to push him towards the door. “He has said he will be busy until nightfall,” he said to him, although the message of his departure was clearly meant more for Gandalf.

“But my dream,” Faramir insisted, gently pulling out of Boromir’s grasp.

Boromir’s mouth twisted in a conflicted frown but he let him go; if Denethor would not speak openly about what the dream purported to mean, there was no one else with such insight besides the grey wizard. “Just do not forget your promise to Beregond,” he reminded him, ruffling his hair as he departed.

When the door to the vault shut once again behind him, Faramir’s heart sank in fear that Gandalf had no more interest in talking to him after his brother’s outbursts, or that he would simply prefer to be left alone to complete the business he had come for-- business that also explained Denethor’s reticence to welcome him-- without distraction. He was quiet as the wizard returned to the shelves to scan titles and pull volumes of interest, watching with interest how the peculiar old man moved with surprising energy. He had seen ages no living man in Gondor could recall yet with no sense of approaching death upon him. He felt timeless, like a fixture in the landscape that never changed.

As Gandalf scanned the titles he muttered to himself again in a language heavy in consonants, _kh_ s and _z_ s, which Faramir had heard was the hallmark of Dwarvish speech-- not that he had ever encountered a Dwarf. But he had read that the Dwarvish language was transcribed in the same runes used by the few literate men in Rohan, which he had already taken upon himself to learn. He remembered the small section of tablets and short books he had found when practicing reading the Cirth and quickly slipped away to peruse them until he found one that transcribed neatly into one of the words he had heard Gandalf muttering. He took and slid the volume tentatively onto the table in offering. 

Gandalf glanced at it and his eyes flashed in surprise. “You know Khuzdul?”

“I have studied a little of the runes it is transcribed in,” Faramir replied sheepishly, his first instinct to feel guilty for knowing them. Denethor had not prioritized minor foreign scripts as part of his sons’ education. Faramir was not expected to know much beyond Fëanor’s letters; Denethor would likely criticize him for the waste of time better spent on something else.

However, Gandalf smiled with warmth and surprise. “Clever. Your brother was right to praise you.”

Faramir blushed in earnest at the compliment. Feeling emboldened by it, he hazarded to ask: “Have you . . . have you ever come across dragons in your travels, Mithrandir?”

Gandalf could not help but chuckle, reminded that however somber and studious, his young assistant was still but a boy. “The last great dragon, Smaug, fell some forty years ago. I was not witness to his defeat, though I was part in the journey that led to his demise. There is one who tells the story much better than I-- though I’m afraid his tale may take some time to reach these parts, especially as he tarries so to write it.”

“Oh. So there are no more?”

“If there are, they are not worth troubling over,” he assured him. However, Faramir looked anything but assured and Gandalf laughed outright. “Do not look so disappointed, young son of Denethor! There are fell beasts enough in this world to more than make up for dragons.”

“I had a dream just last night,” Faramir began, finally getting to the point, “in which a faceless figure in a dark mantle came to battle upon the plains before Minas Tirith, astride a great winged beast I thought might be a dragon.”

“That is a troubling dream,” Gandalf replied, eyebrows furrowing as he turned his attention fully on Faramir for the first time. “Especially from one of your line, whose dreams often bear portentous tidings. But I must say it is the rider I am most curious about, more than his mount. Faceless, you said?”

“He wore a helm, but in place of his face there was nothing but a black void. And he claimed that no man could kill him, which I believe identifies him as the Witch-King of Angmar, for that is his lore.”

“Indeed,” Gandalf agreed, his eyes growing cold and hollow with foreboding. “Have you spoken to your father of what you saw?”

“Yes. He agreed it must be the Witch-King and seemed troubled by it, but he would not speak his mind openly.”

“He has cause to be troubled, should the Black Riders descend on the White City.”

“There are more of them?”

“There are precisely nine. They have disturbed Gondor in ages past, though little is remembered of them in these parts save Eärnur’s last stand against the Witch-King. And their return has only come to my attention quite recently-- in wizard's terms, anyway," he added, remembering Faramir's young age.

“Would they conquer Gondor?”

“With the proper weapon in their master’s hand, they would conquer far more than Gondor,” Gandalf replied, and Faramir thought he saw him shudder. Faramir dared not ask who _he_ was, already knowing it must be that same Enemy his own people dared not name as they cast fearful glances to the East. “These are fell things known well by those whose memories span back far enough to recall them and they are a great peril to all of us, especially to those who do not yet know of their return. But by what power and for what purpose will they descend with armies upon Minas Tirith?” Thinking out loud, Gandalf turned from his table of books and began to tear down another aisle in pursuit of another trail.

“But my dream shows the Witch-King will be _killed_ in Gondor,” Faramir piped up, striding briskly after him and trying to lend hope to the wizard’s now dour mood. “He was slain by a single--“ he caught himself before he said _Man_ \--“ _individual_. I have been thinking that ‘Man’ might be a riddle; perhaps no one of the race of Men can slay him, but it may be an Elf or Dwarf that seals his doom?”

“Perhaps,” replied Gandalf absently as he rounded a corner, though it was clear his mind was on his task and no longer on Faramir. As with Denethor, it seemed that having gleaned what he could from his dream he dismissed Faramir’s further insight, the thoughts of a mere boy.

“Or one who is not _yet_ a man,” Faramir realized with a gasp, stopping in place. He thought of how the armor and helmet had hung loosely on the figure in his dream, and his father’s remark that _you are no Steward, nor a captain or soldier, nor even a man full grown_ . . . 

There was a reason the dream had come to him.

“I have promised to meet a friend this afternoon for sparring practice,” he called after Gandalf as calmly as he could. “It was a pleasure to spend the morning in your company, Mithrandir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *From _The Two Towers_ "The Window on the West." Faramir quotes this line to Frodo and Sam as he's obviously heard it from Gandalf before.


	2. Chapter 2

Boromir had looked forward to his return home, but after a few hours once the reunions had been had and his father and brother were preoccupied with other tasks, he felt restless and stifled in the fortified city. Although in its abandonment Osgiliath had been even quieter than Minas Tirith, its ruins held an air of mystery and danger since it was less than a generation previous that Gondor had reclaimed it from the East. Simply wandering its desolate streets recalled so much ancient memory of grander ages, a time when Osgiliath had been capital of an even greater Gondor, bordered all the way to Minas Ithil in the east. The architecture spoke of craftsmanship and style of men closer to their Numenorian ancestors, when their empire was only ever growing and improving, not barely sustaining itself with an ever dwindling and more guarded populace. Faramir would have been more interested in the specific history and artistry of such things, but Boromir could not deny the deep pride they evoked in the proud legacy of Gondor, the greatest kingdom of men in their age-- and his home.

He was half-dazed in his musings on the fallen city when Beregond came upon him, Faramir’s young companion with whom he had promised to meet to practice their swordplay, appointments Boromir encouraged knowing it would please their father. Although Beregond came from a line of capable men and already showed promise as the city guard he was training to be, he had no particular pedigree that might commend him to the inner circle of the Steward’s son. However, Faramir in his readiness to discern the better part of men’s souls paid this little mind, seeing only the eagerness and loyalty in his heart, and took to him with enthusiasm. Beregond, likely having been raised never to expect attention from one such as Faramir, for his own part clearly worshipped him, and the two had been fast friends.

“My lord, is Faramir well?” Beregond asked him. “He has not come into some trouble that has prevented him taking leave of your father’s house today?”

“He was not with you just now?”

“No, my lord.”

Boromir guessed what had happened and rolled his eyes in a show of brotherly disapproval even as he suppressed his endeared smile. “I know where he must be. The Grey Pilgrim has come to the citadel today and I left the two of them together in the vaults some hours ago.”

“It is not like Faramir to lose track of time and forget his duties.”

“You are right,” he agreed, “which is why I do not think it was forgetfulness. He knows Mithrandir visits seldom and has chosen to allot his time accordingly.” He raised his eyebrows with a promising grin and gave him a playful nudge. “But fear not, young Beregond; I will find him, and I assure you he will spar with you as promised, on the morrow. See to it that you best him on my behalf!”

Boromir made his way back into the citadel, thinking to himself that when he found his brother he would scoop him up and carry him out tossed over his shoulder, just a little something to embarrass him in front of Gandalf and remind him of his other duties. Now that he was nearly a man, Faramir hated to be flung about as if he weighed nothing more than a child, which of course gave Boromir satisfaction that he still could do so if he pleased. He supposed he was being petty, but why should Faramir be so devoted to this near-stranger he had met only once before? Especially one who did not deny his designs to supplant the office of their family for centuries!

However, when he returned to the vault he found only Gandalf more or less how he had left him, but Faramir had gone. “He departed to meet with a friend some time ago,” he told Boromir after a long moment of strained concentration as a finished scanning a page of maps before addressing him.

“His friend just told me he never came.”

Gandalf appeared unconcerned-- but why should he be, Boromir figured, when he did not know his brother well enough to understand he was not an irresponsible child to shirk his promises? But Boromir noticed a volume left upon the table beside him, displaying a map of Angmar in the age of the last kings, when Eärnur had met the Witch-King.

“He told you about his dream,” Boromir observed. 

“Yes, he seems to have dreamt of the Witch-King come to Gondor. I have long known your family possesses an uncanny gift of prophecy, so this is troubling news indeed. Their return is known to us, but by or for what means they will grow bold enough to attack Minas Tirith . . . "

“You told Faramir of this?"

“I did not conceal what I knew from him,” Gandalf replied defensively. “I find it is a disservice to hide the truth from children, especially those who have already discerned much on their own. “

“Did you tell him you knew where he could _find_ this enemy?”

“He does not need my telling where he may find evil at hand,” he chuckled darkly, knowing how brightly Mordor already glowed on the horizon. “But no fool would ride so boldly into the hands of the Enemy.”

But the eldest son of Denethor had gone, already halfway down the stairs and sprinting for the armory and stables.

Startled by the young man’s instantaneously response, Gandalf swore with irritation at the folly of the young Gondorian-- but also at himself for forgetting that young ones were _prone_ to such folly and delusions of heroic purpose, especially when those who guided them were not attentive to them-- as it seems Denethor was not, nor Gandalf himself when he had abandoned the boy in his curiosity to investigate his own theories. But his fears of what Faramir's dream foretold, however dire, were not as urgent as the reality of a barely-trained young man riding alone into territory beset by orcs and worse. Although he knew there would be no pleasure in the task, he went swiftly to find Lord of the City.

However, Denethor did not make himself easy to find. Gandalf muttered and cursed to himself when guard after guard admitted that with his appointments finished it was typical for the Steward to withdraw somewhere private, presumably to meditate on the various decisions affecting Gondor. They checked his office and chambers for him with no result.

Gandalf was nearly out of breath and beginning to consider commanding some of the city guards as a search party himself, Lord of the City be damned, when by a stroke of luck he found Denethor coming down a staircase from the White Tower looking exhausted and restless and perfectly unfit for the news Gandalf had for him. The Steward immediately regarded Gandalf with suspicion and irritation, prepared to dismiss anything the wizard had to say to him with his assertion: “If my son’s dreams are to be believed, Gondor continues to lie on the precipice of doom, barely holding our own against ever-rising forces of the East. And yet you would wander all the realms of this world and leave us troubled and without aid from any of the peoples between whom we alone stand guard against their doom.”

“I’m afraid it is far more than that that will trouble you today,” said Gandalf. “It seems your son has ridden East in pursuit of that very specter of his dream, and his brother after him.”

The Steward went pale as a corpse. Although he had been content to send his eldest East in the company of seasoned warriors, upon news that both of his sons had left the city alone he was practically in hysterics. He whirled from Gandalf and began calling frantically for his guards to assemble the strongest powers of the city to retrieve them.

“You cannot send an _army_ East,” Gandalf scolded him as he followed, growing irritated with the man’s rash dramatics. "Do you wish to unleash the forces of Mordor upon you now?”

“Boromir’s company returned this morning with reports of orc scouts west of Osgiliath. What if the Enemy should seize them at threat to me?” Denethor cried.

“I would not overestimate the cleverness of orcs,” Gandalf frowned. “Unless they are under orders by threat or some other incentive, I do not think they would have the delicacy to identify and ransom your sons.” 

This, of course, did not comfort Denethor at all.

“Swift diligence should be your aim now,” Gandalf directed him, realizing the once-competent Steward’s grip on sound judgement had been knocked askew-- though whether through stress, senility, or some other force he was curious to know. “Prepare a small company to pursue them; have some ride for Osgiliath and watch the road, and if they come to the city before they find either of them, warn the outpost there to watch for him. Have other parties ride north and south lest Faramir have taken a wrong turn. One adolescent boy will not have traveled far, but he rides ever farther as we speak.”

Denethor, however, did not take kindly to his command. “Do not order me about in my own halls! You come bearing these ill tidings but was it not you who inspired them in the first place? Would you not also have _me_ ride after them, too, to send father, sons, all-- all to our deaths so that there is no contest to the claim of the upstart you bring to supplant us?”

Gandalf had to strongly resist the urge to swat the man over the head with his staff. “If I wished for your son’s deaths I would not have come to you to report their danger. How much more time do you wish to waste?”

***

It did not take Boromir long to prepare his horse and set off in pursuit of Faramir. He hurried all the faster when he dressed and noted that someone had swiped his helmet and bracers; all soldiers of Gondor were outfitted with their own, and there was only one he could imagine who would be so bold as to pilfer those of the eldest son of the Steward. Although he was not yet fully refreshed after his journey that morning he rode with all his strength, bounding swiftly down the road from Minas Tirith in defiance of geography and time. Praying that his brother had had some lapse in geographic knowledge or had become distracted in his daydreams as he was wont to do, he first turned northward in pursuit of a band of Rohirrim taking their leave of the city, still in view, who rode not far ahead.

“Riders of the Mark!” he called to them. “Have you encountered on your journey a child of Gondor, younger than soldiering age?"

The small band of Rohirrim slowed their steeds and turned so that the tassels of their helmets swung behind them. 

“Or _any_ man of Gondor?” Boromir amended, noting that the Rohirrim were smaller in stature than men of Numenorian blood, and might not have marked his brother as a child. Faramir was already as tall as most of them. 

“We were followed a ways by one in Gondor’s livery,” one of them confirmed. “We assumed you sent him as an escort to your borders, until he turned east on some errand of his own. We parted ways some time ago, when he took the road towards Osgiliath.”

Boromir’s stomach fell as they confirmed exactly what he had feared. There was no time to waste. He bid the riders a safe journey even as his mouth had gone dry, then sped back down the road back to where it forked east.

***

Although he was no soldier, Faramir was well-practiced in riding and rode hard and fast along the path to Osgiliath-- and although he was no soldier he already had armor of his own, his own mail and breastplate adorned with the white tree to wear for ceremonial purposes, a symbol of Denethor’s commitment that even his own sons would fight as necessary for the preservation of Gondor. When it had first been commissioned it hung far too wide around his thin frame, but now that it fit him better across the chest he was already grown too tall for it. But, Faramir reminded himself, the armor had not fit the figure in his dream, either. Boromir’s helmet was loose around his head and thudded persistently against his scalp during his vigorous ride, and it was difficult to tell if he was lightheaded with exhilaration or the simple physics of metal clanging against his skull. At least his saddle fit him properly, else he might have lost spirit much more quickly. His horse balked at riding directly towards the fire and shadow of the East, sensing the evil that lay before them, but Faramir gently coaxed him each time he tried to turn or falter, and the beast, sensing his placidity and purpose transcending all doubt, heeded him.

However, once the sun set, Faramir’s confidence waned dramatically. He only stopped to make camp once it was dark enough the path was no longer clear, which having never spend a night outside the city before, he swiftly realized was a mistake. It would be deathly foolish to light a fire in the darkness with the threat of orcs about, yet the night was swiftly growing cold. He had not packed provisions for a meal and it was far too late to hunt or scavenge. He _had_ packed a bedroll, but he had no companion to take watch while he slept. He was no soldier, indeed. He had to admit that he had dashed off woefully underprepared. It was going to be a long and terrible-- if not deadly-- night.

The wind howled down from the mountains as the plains cooled, whistling like the shrieks of the beasts the Witch-King had ridden in his dream, setting his nerves on edge. He curled up on himself protectively, hugging his knees to his chest and hoping that the dropping temperature would prevent him dozing off. It being summer he calculated he only had a few hours to keep his own watch before he could ride in the light again, and perhaps seek out some hidden hollow to rest in for part of the morning before continuing his journey. Trying to keep his mind sharp, he pictured to himself the maps he had studied in the vault but had not taken with him, visualizing the course his journey would take. His eyes stung with exhaustion but he bit his lip and squashed one foot down on the other painfully trying to remain awake, forcing himself to visualize the relief that would be had throughout Gondor when this great historic enemy was no longer a threat to them, the shock from Boromir that his speculation on his dream had been correct, the pride Denethor might finally take in him . . . 

However, he knew it was not his own imagination when he heard the thundering of hooves at some distance, approaching on the path. Cursing himself for having rested too near the road, he leapt to his feet, drew his sword, and immediately took a defensive stance in preparation for his assailant’s advance.

When he made out the white tree upon his breast and his eyes took in the familiar face, he paled. “Boromir?”

Boromir might have been impressed with his reflexes if he weren’t so angry, but he did not hesitate. “What are you doing? Why did you come here?” he cried, and as Faramir lowered his sword he leapt from his horse, seized him angrily by the arm, and thumped him on the ear. In the dark solitude of night there was no time to express any further displeasure, so Boromir simply scooped up Faramir around the waist and heaved him over his shoulder to carry him back to his horse, picking up his sword in the same hand he carried his own. Although Faramir’s stomach twisted in humiliation to be lifted and carried like a sack of meal, he did not kick or struggle; he could not deny the exhaustion in his body from his long day’s ride and the sense of familiar security of his brother’s presence, angry as it was. He was relieved, for now that darkness had fallen, riding with Boromir was indeed a far more comforting prospect than defending his lonely campsite through the long Eastern night.

However, his defensive wits did not desert him entirely, for even as he thudded against Boromir’s back Faramir-- heard? saw? felt?-- a dark presence in the brush beyond the road. He gave a startled shout, just as a shadowed figure emerged from the brush.

“Boromir!” he cried again, voice peaking in warning, helpless to lift his own sword and knowing that Boromir was not prepared-- not while holding two swords in one hand and an adolescent boy over his shoulder in the other. However, with the practiced skill of having fended attacks while carrying a pack in transit, Boromir released Faramir’s sword and Faramir himself to the ground and readied his sword just in time to meet the blade of their assailant, and there was the sharp crash of steel against steel. The orc emerged into the light and shrieked and cursed them in his harsh language but Boromir was silent, all the energy of his response centered in fending him off.

Faramir plummeted painfully to land on his shoulders and upper back-- dropping a brother was not exactly like dropping a pack of provisions-- and crawled awkwardly on his belly to seize his dropped sword.

For several long moments he lay watching between his brother’s sturdy legs, deducing the pattern of their skirmish, until he saw an opportunity. When the moment was right, he drew back onto his knees and then lurched forward to slash at the attacking creature’s legs. It was not a heavy blow, only a shallow cut into the flesh, but it was enough, for the unwieldy beast had not thought to guard its ankles in his scuffle against the tall Gondorian who occupied his attention. He doubled over with a shriek of pain, which gave Boromir the opening to raise his sword high and bring it crashing down upon the orc’s neck in a clean and deadly cut. Faramir cringed in disgust and pity as the disembodied head fell into the dark dust before him, its warped mouth still open wide in its parting scream of anguish.

“Well done,” Boromir complimented him, breathless as he pulled him to his feet roughly by his collar—this time simply out of urgency rather than anger. His breastplate was spattered with the orc’s dark blood. “Come; we must be long gone from here when his companions note his disappearance.” They were not a company of Gondorian warriors capable of ranging in threatened territory, but only two exhausted boys alone in the night.

Faramir did not protest when Boromir lifted him into his own horse and tied Faramir’s mount by the reins to follow behind. Boromir slid into the saddle behind him and wrapped a firm around him, as if to keep him from falling, before urging the horses forward. As they settled into rhythm Faramir could hear the heaviness of his brother’s heartbelt, his breath coming in gasps. Between the two of them it seemed far more likely _he_ would be the one to risk falling from his horse, but Faramir didn’t dare complain about their respective positions, not when Boromir had come to his aid, spared him from the orc’s attack, and would prevent him spending a night alone in hostile territory.

It was a long ride back but they took it briskly, both of their nerves on edge as they kept their senses alert for more orc scouts. Luckily Boromir knew the road well and for once the brothers were grateful for the eerie red light of Mordor to the east, providing something more than starlight to light their way. Step by step they trotted down the road, until the moonlit-white of Minas Tirith was visible across the Pelennor.

Faramir had expected a quiet return to the city, smuggled up to his chambers for the restoration of sleep before the potential of consequences in the morning-- but his hopes were dashed by the unmistakable peal of the silver horn signaling that the tower guards had spotted the return of steward-princes. Someone had been watching for them-- and as they grew closer he could make out a veritable throng just outside the gates, soldiers assembling horses and holding torches milling about in an excited chaos. His stomach clenched in guilty fear that the hubbub was on his behalf.

“Is there a healer?” Boromir called to the gathering forces with all the dignity and purpose of a returning hero.

“I don’t need a healer,” Faramir grumbled back to him, though in truth he rather wished he did; at least the piteousness of having been injured might soften the disgrace of having been brought home on his brother’s horse before an army of Gondor. But the herb-master was presented and Boromir passed Faramir down to him, then dismounted himself to help relieve his brother of his armor so that the healer’s wizened hands could pass over his bones to test for breaks, muttering all the while about words for anatomy in the various tongues he knew. But it was soon confirmed that the worst condition Faramir was in was simply that he was going to be in a lot of trouble.

The word of their return had passed quickly back to Denethor, who had been fretting and pacing just inside with gates with approximately the same urgency of one in need of a toilet, in his panic still having failed to administer a comprehensive plan to the men he had assembled. His men were confused by the the Steward’s rash commands that were perpetually rescinded and administered again as he argued with the Grey Wizard, growing all the more aggravated with the fiasco that had been made of the search party.

However, at word his sons were safe Denethor grew calm and all of his anxiety distilled into fury.

The troops let him pass, parting smoothly in deference to the Steward, and Faramir’s knees shook despite himself at his approach. However, Denethor overlooked him entirely, his eyes locking on Boromir and his blood-spattered armor.

“Are you harmed, my son?” he asked, breathless as he darted forward, his bony hands prodding at his breastplate and up to the burgeoning short beard on his eldest son’s jaw that was flecked with dark blood. Boromir looked nearly as confused as Faramir felt, embarrassed by the attention and the implication his father did not trust him to have managed himself without injury.

Only when Boromir shook his head in silent bewilderment did Denethor round on his younger son. Faramir’s heart had sunk when his father’s concern was aimed first for Boromir, but when Denethor’s eyes finally turned upon him it leapt painfully into his throat. His was no gaze of concern and sympathy, and certainly not of pride in his bravery and valor.

For a moment Faramir thought he might strike him and he flinched, but Denethor stayed out of reach. Instead, he stared at him intently without meeting his eyes, as if looking _within_ him rather than upon him. As if he read his younger son’s heart in that moment and construed all of Faramir’s hopes—that for once, his father might look upon him without immediately comparing him to the brother beside him and that for once, he might beam upon him with pride-- and dashed every one.

“How dare you,” the Lord of the City hissed in quavering anger. “ _How dare you_ lead your brother into enemy territory and bid a company of Gondor to come to arms to pursue you in your reckless foolishness? You have risked the very lineage of our house, the life of your own brother, for the vain stupidity of a child’s fantasy! Did I not tell you to leave this business to those who know better?”

Faramir opened his mouth with the instinct to defend himself, but no defense came to his lips.

“Do not speak to me!” Denethor commanded in response to this faintest sign of argument. “Would you defend your folly before the men whose lives you would risk so wantonly? Would you shame your father further with insolence on top of your idiocy? I have no care to so much as _look_ at you until the sun sets tomorrow. Out of my sight,” he said with finality.

Before Faramir could so much as inhale, his father had already turned away in absolute dismissal, dark robes swishing as he strode back towards the gate, leaving him there speechless with his stolen helmet and bracers littered around him in a disgraceful mess.

He glanced towards Boromir, whose eyes held pity but also resignation. He gave a quiet nod to indicate that he would attend to the horses and armor. Faramir swallowed the tears threatening to rise and lowered his eyes in shame as the ranks of soldiers parted for him as he followed his father at a distance back into the city.


	3. Chapter 3

The herb-master had deemed him unharmed, but Faramir thought he might have exaggerated. His thighs were sore from his vigorous ride, his shoulders tense from bearing the weight of armor he was not used to wearing, and he had never been more exhausted. Yet he lay fitfully awake for several hours reliving the altercation with the orc, the nerve-wracking ride home in the dark, and the fury in his father’s eyes upon his return, stomach twisting painfully with the guilt in the truth of what his father had accused. He _had_ behaved recklessly, putting his brother and nearly a small army at needless risk, simply because he had been caught up in the delusion that he might yet be capable of something so important. It had been vanity, hubris, and sheer _stupidity_ to believe that something so significant might have been accomplished by his untrained hands.

When he finally did succumb to sleep, as if to add insult to his disgrace he had the dream again, and when he woke he recalled details that he not the first night he dreamt it. What struck him most this time was that the figure-- whose face he still could not yet see-- removed their helmet to reveal a waterfall of lush golden waves, not unlike what Faramir imagined when he had read tales of Glorfindel, the Balrog-slayer reincarnated who had made the prophecy concerning the Witch-king in the first place. But the figure’s armor was neither Elven nor adorned with Gondor’s white tree; it was, perplexingly, in the colors of Rohan. He could not make heads or tails of why he should dream on behalf of one of the Rohirrim-- or at least one posing as such-- nor why the Rohirrim would be at battle upon the Pelennor, but one thing was clear: the figure in the dream was not Faramir.

As if the previous night had not already made that clear enough.

Forbidden from dining with his father, Faramir did not go the morning meal but waited patiently in his room as the sun rose higher, stomach rumbling with the exhaustion of the night before. He was just about to go down to the kitchens to seek out some sustenance for himself, when there came a knock at the door. Without waiting for his consent the door opened to reveal Boromir, who kindly brought him up a small tray saved from the meal. He held it out to him so Faramir could take a sweet bun before tossing it abruptly upon the side table with a clatter. Faramir looked into his face to see anger in his eyes and his heart sank; even Boromir, his greatest ally, was angry with him.

“Do not question my gladness that you are safe,” Boromir began, his voice sharp in an eerie imitation of their father’s, “but what possessed you to ride alone towards . . . “ he jerked his head towards the red horizon visible out the window.

“I thought the dream was meant as a sign to me,” Faramir replied softly, unable to meet his eyes and staring down at the bun he held in both hands. His stomach rumbled but he could not fathom chewing while Boromir had words with him. “Or rather--I _hoped_. You do not need to tell me how foolish that hope was.”

“You are not one to dash into foolish danger on a whim, Faramir,” said Boromir, the anger in his voice thawing with some gentle concern. “Have I missed something? Did something change while I was away?”

Faramir’s stomach twisted with guilt for worrying him. However, he shook his head, for nothing had changed; indeed, Denethor’s failure to take any increased interest in his remaining son during Boromir’s absence had only proved what Faramir had suspected all along.

“I only wished that I might lend my own significant purpose to Gondor’s cause,” he said quietly. “Father rules as Steward, you are becoming a soldier . . . I contribute nothing.”

“Faramir-- do not take this as insult, but-- you are barely more than a child. There is no _need_ for you to seek out Gondor’s greatest enemies yet-- let alone on your own! We have _armies_ for that.”

“I know,” Faramir kept his eyes downcast.

“And this is something far more reckless than any lone soldier would ever dare! _I_ would never dare! This is not the type of enemy for _any_ man to risk confronting on his own.”

“I know.”

“And it’s not even how prophecies _work_. If it is fated that the Witch-King should be slain in battle in the fields before Minas Tirith, you could not defeat him by riding to meet him in the East!”

“I know.”

Boromir sighed, frustrated with his resignation. “And I don’t understand how you could not have thought of any of this! It is not your way to leap into danger with such little consideration for preparation and consequences; it is not like you to have failed to consider these things yourself. What were you thinking?”

Faramir was quiet for a moment, unsure of whether Boromir waited for an answer or would continue to scold him. “I thought,” he swallowed thickly, “I thought it might take something more reckless and daring for Father to take note of it.” And then, with the truth laid bare before them, he found himself biting hard on his lip to stem the tears that threatened in his eyes.

Boromir’s eyes flashed in bewilderment. “Faramir, Father does not expect you to be hero of Gondor at only twelve years old!”

“Father does not expect _anything_ from me,” Faramir replied quietly. “Now or ever.”

“Come now,” Boromir shook his head, immediately dismissive of the idea.

“Do you not see that this is true? I am only ever a disappointment to him. He is a learned man, but he cares not for my studies; everything I might come to know or share with him he dismisses, for it is nothing new or of interest to him. And _then_ he accuses me that my interest in such things will make me a poor soldier. It’s true I do not spend my every hour in training, but am I as incompetent as he implies?”

“You are more than merely _competent_ for one your age,” Boromir refuted proudly, thinking of the calm head his young brother had kept during their confrontation with the orc.

“And yet Father does not see it.” He sighed. “I do not envy you your accomplishments and praise; you have earned them. You will be a great soldier and one day a great Steward. You are a man of the sort Gondor needs most, and which our father desires best. But I am not, nor will I be. I do not know yet what my own purpose may be in Gondor’s future, but I only wish our father would look upon me by my own right, as Faramir, and not but a shadow that falls short of Boromir.”

Boromir’s eyes softened and he moved from where he stood towering over him to sit beside him on the bed. He wrapped a strong arm around his brother’s shoulders, pulling him to him.

“He _will_ ,” he assured him, though Faramir was not unaware of the pleading note in his tone, as if he were convincing himself as much as Faramir. “You are yet so young, Faramir, and you have many years ahead of you yet to prove your quality. Father will see it, I am sure of it. But you cannot put your life at risk in your impatience! You must trust he cares for you, even if he is quiet with his praise; you are his son, the last child borne of his wife, one of his own blood. Right now he simply cares more for your safety than your accomplishments.”

“Does he?” Faramir scoffed bitterly, thinking of how Denethor had been so concerned for the health and wholeness of his eldest son, but had not even asked if Faramir was alright.

Boromir frowned at Faramir’s sullenness. “Do you think that because he was angry with you he was not worried about you? He was angry _because_ he worried. Do you expect praise for your recklessness? You are lucky all he did was send you from his sight.”

Faramir scowled down at the bun he had now suitably crushed in his hands, thinking that Boromir spoke in this regard with his own voice far more than Denethor’s. “I suppose to have chastised me would have required spending more time in my presence than he had in all the time you were gone.”

Boromir landed an impatient sharp slap to Faramir’s thigh. “Do not tempt me to provide such attention on his behalf. Even you do not trust that Father feared for your safety, you may trust me.”

Faramir yelped and pulled his leg up to curl against his chest, glaring indignantly. However, he could not glower long when Boromir’s eyes looked upon him with so much fear and devotion. Faramir had truly frightened his brother, who had always looked after him, giving him counsel and comfort. Perhaps when Boromir spoke on behalf of Denethor he spoke only for himself, but Faramir would not be reckless with that love. 

“He _will_ see it,” Boromir assured him again, his temper once again quiet as he laid a gentle hand on Faramir’s leg to rub out the slap in apology. “You must have patience and faith in yourself.”

Faramir nodded and set aside the squashed bun, exchanging it for a fresh one into which he took his first bite. Noting that he was now chewing, a sign his troubled heart was settling, Boromir smiled. “Promise me, little brother,” he said, “that should you ever attempt something so reckless again, it is only because it has been _asked_ of you?”

“Aye, Boromir,” Faramir promised with his mouth full.

“When you have finished, I believe you owe Beregond a rematch of yesterday’s cancelled bout.”

“Yes,” Faramir agreed. “And I suppose I owe Mithrandir an apology as well.”

***

After a little searching-- the grey wizard had taken a break from his studies in the library-- Faramir found Gandalf seated alone on the steps of the courtyard of the seventh level, indulging in his pipe.

“Faramir,” he greeted him, “it is good to see you well and about.”

His genuine cheer, with no note of sarcasm or intent to shame him, only made Faramir feel guiltier. He shifted his weight between his feet as he stared down at them. “I am lucky to be as well as I am; by all logic it should not be so.” He knew that Gandalf, like surely everyone else in the city, already knew what had transpired. “I apologize if you were unjustly blamed for any part in my foolishness.”

“Lord Denethor blames me for many things, justly and unjustly so. I am quite certain I will survive his enmity.” He patted the step beside him in invitation for Faramir to join him, and Faramir obeyed. Gandalf gave him a pointed look. “As will you. I hope you are recovering adequately from last night?”

“I have no injuries,” Faramir explained, but the wizard’s eyes indicated that this was not what he had been referring to. “Aside from wounded pride, anyway, but that’s the least I deserve for my foolishness."

“Wandering alone towards Mordor certainly ranks amongst the more foolish deeds I have ever heard of,” Gandalf agreed frankly. “Though I suppose under the right circumstances, it might be deemed heroic.”

“Not this time,” said Faramir in defeat. “Though I’ll warrant Boromir will benefit from the praise he has received for retrieving me.” He sighed. “I dreamt it again last night, and it seems the dream was not even meant for me.”

“It may not have been _about_ you, but who is to say it was not meant _for_ you? There are many portents in our world strange and difficult to read, which even the greatest learned Eldar have mistaken, and myself as well. In time its significance to your own fate will become clear to you.”

“Have you uncovered its meaning?” Faramir asked. When Gandalf responded with a small wry smile, he added: “I promise I will not try to insert myself as the hero into whatever it portends.”

The wizard was quiet for a moment as he continued to puff on his pipe. His eyes seemed sad and distant. “There is little I know, but much I _suspect_. The Riders may have been sent by their master in pursuit of something, something which could mean great peril to all if it were to be found and taken in the wrong hands. But as for the death of the Witch-King . . . at this point, your theory is as good as any of mine.”

Praise was the last thing Faramir had expected, however modest. Perhaps his father’s critical voice was still embedded too deeply within his heart, but he brushed off the compliment as easily as dust. “My father would disagree with you there-- and rightly so, it seems. It would make him an even bigger fool than me to take the wisdom of a child without sense enough to heed his warning not to take danger into his own hands. It is no wonder he favors Boromir; Boromir always heeds him.”

“Indeed, your brother does right by your father,” agreed Gandalf, “and it serves him well for now. But what should Denethor err or fail?”

Faramir laughed darkly. “If my father may err, than all the more so may I.”

“ _Any_ man may err: yourself, your brother, your father, any king, any common soldier. Your father has ruled wisely thus far, but he is not infallible. And he was not born to his wisdom, but came to it through study and counsel. Denethor studies and listens to the guidance of many and in his heart decides his course. Why should you not do the same?”

Faramir pursed his lips, thinking of how critical Denethor was of his reading and his speculations about his dream. “And if my decided course is not the same as my father’s?”

“Then you will disagree,” he replied, as if it were simple, and took another puff on his pipe.

“One does not simply disagree with my father,” said Faramir.

“Obedience is a virtue highly praised, but obedience is easy,” Gandalf mused. “It is a man who can think and act in the best interest of those to whom his duty binds him, even in spite of forces against him, who shows strongest force of will and character.”

As Faramir’s eyebrows furrowed at the prospect of what he was suggesting and Gandalf remembered once again that he was barely more than a child-- and his relationship with Denethor already fraught enough-- and his wizened face softened. “I do not counsel you not to love your father,” he said, “but remember that _loving_ is not the same as agreeing. You would do yourself a disservice to numb your mind in hope of pleasing your father. Just as you did yourself a disservice to endanger yourself for his approval.”

Faramir flushed, wondering if Boromir had spoken to him or if it had been plain to everyone. It seemed the only person who hadn’t appreciated his intentions was Denethor himself. "I didn't mean to bring harm to anyone; I was only hoping to improve things between my father and myself. But all for naught."

“Many ill deeds have been done by those with the best intentions, young Faramir. Men, Elves, Dwarves . . . you need not read much history to see great atrocities done in the pursuit of glory, power, riches, and relics of great significance, by those who often convinced themselves that their own righteous intent justified such violence and destruction. Horrible deeds may even be done in the name of family duty and love. But I ask you; if there is evil done in the wanting, are such things worth having in the end? And do such people deserve them?”

***

The rest of the day passed with little event, bringing the the cool of evening and with it, Denethor’s reprieve. Although Faramir tried several excuses of upset stomach and exhaustion to avoid having to see his father again, Boromir brought him in to supper, staying kindly at his side. Joining them, to Faramir’s surprise, was Gandalf, who had apparently been speaking in private to the Steward before the meal. Although they had been debating animatedly even as the servants arranged for them a table and additional chairs for the Steward’s sons, they both hushed when Faramir entered. He knew immediately that they had been discussing his dream.

Although dark had fallen, it was clear Faramir’s penance was not yet finished. No sooner than they finished their silent prayer towards the West than Denethor began to air his further thoughts on Faramir’s actions the night before.

“Perhaps protocols have changed since I led a company,” he began conversationally to Gandalf, as if this had nothing to do with the son to his left but were an innocent memory that had simply crossed his mind, “but there were strict consequences in my day for soldiers so reckless as to venture from their command, placing their company and officers in unnecessary danger. I seem to recall a fledgling ranger horsewhipped for losing his way and bringing his company too near to the mouth of Cirith Ungol in search of him. And the penalty for leaving a post in open defiance, of course, was death.” Although he neither spoke his name nor glanced upon him, Faramir squirmed in spite of himself. Surely neither of these was a real possibility.

“There are still consequences for soldiers and guards,” Boromir replied evenly. Faramir was no soldier or guard yet.

“Then it is fortunate that _children_ are not subjected to the unyielding discipline of an armed company, but the guidance of wise parents, sympathetic to the needs that drive them to seek their attention,” added Gandalf, quietly impatient with his host’s veiled insinuations as he took a sip of wine. Faramir flushed with terror on Gandalf’s behalf; he had been pleased by his kindness that morning, but his defense of him in front of Denethor seemed like something akin to madness.

“ _Some_ children seek to earn their parents’ attentions through actions worthy of praise,” Denethor replied, eyes narrowing as he unconsciously leaned slightly towards Boromir.

“There are many who find Faramir praiseworthy as he is,” Gandalf replied. “Is the trouble that Faramir fails you, or that you have been blind to all but his failures?”

“Do you seek to counsel me in the rearing of my own children, Mithrandir? How many of your own do you have?” Denethor’s voice held a dangerous venom. “You might forgive me if I do not entrust my sons’ rearing to you, but with all your searching and snooping to repair a broken lineage it seems you have forgotten that Gondor still stands only by the power of the Stewards. Would you extinguish the House of Húrin as well by sending its heirs to their deaths?”

“You know it is not by my power or command that either of your sons rode East.”

“But was it not you who filled Faramir’s head with stories that bid him chase a child’s fancies into such danger? I know not by what power you swayed him from me, but I will not have it, Mithrandir.”

“I thought you might have more compassion for a son feeling insecure of his father’s attentions,” Gandalf replied, clearly referring to something Denethor was meant to recognize. Faramir snuck a glance at Boromir but he seemed equally perplexed, for Denethor had been his father’s only son.

His words had a powerful effect on Denethor, however. “Mind how you speak to the Steward in his own house and kingdom, wizard; do not think I do not understand your veiled threats and intimidation towards me and my sons. And remember there are those of your order yet more powerful than you, who are also allies with Gondor.”

“If you do not wish my counsel, than I shall not burden you further with it,” Gandalf replied lightly. “And if you will excuse me, I shall continue to attend the matters for which purpose I came to Gondor, without further delay of this strained courtesy.” In a bluster of grey robes, he lifted himself from his seat and took his leave, presumably back to the libraries from which Denethor’s audience had kept him.

When he had departed, Denethor settled his sharp eyes steadily on Faramir for the first time since their altercation before the gates. Faramir could not help but flinch. “Mithrandir suggests that I have been lacking in effective counsel to you, Faramir,” he said icily. “Then here it is: I do not approve of your consorting with this wizard. I will not have him tainting your mind with these stories and fancies that drive you from your duties to your father and Gondor. Do you heed me?”

“Your disapproval is noted, Father,” Faramir replied tractably, keeping his eyes blank and unfocused to keep his father from seeing his reluctance.

***

The morning summer sunshine set the white walls of the citadel aglow as Faramir and Beregond sparred in their tunics and leggings. It was far too hot for armor-- and no need for it, with wooden swords-- but nevertheless the two were nearly dripping with sweat from the heat and exertion as they battled in the courtyard in the marginal shadow of the bare White Tree.

Beregond’s face too easily gave away the presence of someone approaching over Faramir’s shoulder, but too late for him to react; he felt his brother’s strong arms encircle him, pinning his arms to his side and rendering his sword-arm useless, allowing Beregond to land his winning stroke in the form of a gentle prod into the soft center of his belly.

“Dishonorable conduct!” Faramir cried, but all three of them were laughing when Boromir released him.

Boromir ruffled his brother’s hair, which was now so wet with sweat it stayed in place, and he chuckled. “Perhaps if you had not skipped the bout you promised him, Beregond would not have defeated you so easily,” he teased with a wink.

“Do you have no duties now that you are home from Osgiliath?” asked Faramir cheekily, “or is your duty now to shadow me and ensure _my_ duties are done?”

"That depends. Do I _need_ to ensure you keep to your duties? For if you're thinking of taking another jaunt out of the city today, I'd sooner stop you _before_ I have to saddle up and fight an orc." He winked as Faramir blushed.

“And I was just in audience with Father,” he continued, scratching the back of his head and seeming conflicted about the news he came to bear. “He has sent a message to our kinsmen in Dol Amroth requesting you spend the winter there. His wish is that you might train with their apprentice knights, so that you may know their strategies as well as ours when you are old enough to command your own company.”

“Ohhh, training with the Swan Knights!” Beregond cried, his excitement in direct contrast to Faramir’s plummeting heart. Faramir knew Denethor would expect gratitude for the opportunity and was glad Boromir had told him first so he could prepare himself, or he might have brought down his father’s wrath for failing to respond with immediate humble thankfulness.

“It is a punishment,” said Faramir, heart aching all the more that his friend did not understand. “Don’t you see? He wants me sent away. From him . . . from you,” he gestured to both of them, “from the libraries, from the eyes of Minas Tirith until they forget about what a fool I made of myself . . . “ His eyes started to sting. He should have known that his father would not let his folly be so quickly forgotten.

Boromir pursed his lips. “Don’t you think you are making too much of it?” he asked kindly, though his voice carried that same doubtful pleading he had comforted him with the day before. “You gave all of us a scare. Father wants to ensure you are safe but properly educated, and our kin in Dol Amroth will attend to both. The city is farther from the Enemy and well-fortified, but their military strength is beyond compare. And you are not much younger than I was when I began training with a company, though I did not leave the city; I think Father has simply realized that it is time you become more diligent in your martial training. Besides, I will be gone more and more from Minas Tirith as time goes by, so you will not miss much of me.”

Faramir’s heart was not comforted by the truth in this, but he nodded reluctantly.

“I’m sure Dol Amroth has its own libraries,” Beregond offered, trying to cheer him. “Maybe not as large as those of Minas Tirith, but there will be many new stories and tales for you to learn while you are there.”

“And Uncle Imrahil is younger than Father, with less duties to attend to,” noted Boromir. “He will have more time to spend with you and perhaps even assist in your training himself. You know he will not treat you unkindly, as a Steward-prince and his sister’s son.”

“You will become perfectly fluent in Sindarin,” added Beregond, knowing that the coastal region was one few places in Gondor in which some folk still spoke the Elvish language as their native tongue.

“And you will have Elphir, Erchirion, and baby Amrothos in the palace for company. Your chance to be eldest for once, and see what a pain little brothers can be,” Boromir nudged him.

“You might become a master of the harp!”

“You may rest assured we will miss you, but you will surely make many new companions.”

Faramir still remained unconvinced that his father’s command was intended as a kindness, but his companions’ enthusiastic reassurance heartened him and he smiled gently.

***

Faramir slipped quietly into the library and down the familiar aisles, following the scent of smoke. His heart rose to see that despite his father’s lack of hospitality the wizard had not yet left the city.

“Faramir, a surprise,” Gandalf said as soon as he noted him, taking a brief pause in his work. “Boromir came to me earlier with his apologies that at your father’s request, the two of you would no longer be seeking my company."

“I will not be much longer in Minas Tirith, either, and I am not here at my father’s request,” Faramir replied. "I come on behalf of myself . . and Gondor,” he added, pausing to draw himself up as tall as he could. He took in a deep breath, trying to sound as formal and sincere as he could. “I think, that if that is indeed what you are searching for, the return of Gondor’s king is business that ought to be known to those who have sworn to keep the kingdom for him-- and if not the Steward himself, then someone close to him. If my father and brother will not keep your counsel, than I shall do so in their stead.”

Gandalf could not help but smile at the solemnness of the gangly adolescent standing before him, just yesterday fool enough to ride solo into the hands of the Enemy. The same earnest desire for love and attention that had driven him there-- and been crushed in the wake of his father’s wrath-- now extended in tentative tendrils to Gandalf instead, in gratitude for his kindness and hope of his continued respect and companionship. 

However, Gandalf thought he also saw an honest integrity in him, a genuine intention to fulfill the duty he named not merely to please him but to see the right thing done, that seemed to rekindle the ever-dimming light of Numenor in his blood.

“I have many purposes in my searching here that affect far more than Gondor’s monarchy,” Gandalf replied. “But I am honored by your offer for assistance. You recall yesterday I asked you what you knew of Isuldir's fate? By the song or no, were you taught how he met his doom?"

“He was shot by Orcs and drowned in the Anduin,” 

"Do you know for what reason?” Gandalf asked. “Was there something he carried they desired of him?”

Faramir shrugged. From his limited understanding of Orcs, they did not need valid cause to murder Men who wandered in their way.

Gandalf pursed his lips and nodded, seeming validated and yet unsatisfied.

“But I am certain this is not the only tome in our treasury that tells of him,” Faramir offered, “and before I am bound for Dol Amroth I will investigate what I can.”

Several hours passed as the two of them pored over many volumes in several languages. Their study kept Faramir from a meal where Denethor surely intended to inform him of his gentle exile to Dol Amroth, satisfaction in his eyes as he watched Faramir struggle between hurt and forced gratitude-- but strangely he found this prospect no longer troubled him as it would have that morning. In fact, going to Dol Amroth at all no longer seemed as devastating a fate as it had at first. He knew Prince Imrahil was a decent man and he reminded Faramir of his mother long passed from his life, and Boromir and Beregond had convinced him of the value of many opportunities he would have there. And perhaps some away to test himself beyond his father’s appraising gaze would do him well. Day by day his father might not see his progress, but when he returned home after a season or so the changes in him would be undeniable.

“A pity, but I do not think we will have time for fireworks this visit,” Gandalf apologized as Faramir briefly turned from his reading to light another candle, the vault heavy with the stagnant air of summer night.

“I think that would be for the best,” Faramir agreed regretfully. “For I had another dream last night of a great pyre in Minas Tirith that threatened to consume both my father and myself. I would not want to set such a thing in motion!”


End file.
